3/14/07

Fig.18-Brace

If Larry was right and the ankle of a horse

Is holy, then what about my carpenter’s wrist, fatigued

By three weeks of the nail gun? Reinforced in its black

Brace against the weight of the drill, the weight of the saw.

The song the saw sings. The sheetrock goes up.


It’s not as bad as New York, its great webs

Of tendonitis creeping up my elbow, my shoulder.

Months of metal studs and sheetrock. The length

Of my arm encased in lycra and velcro.


There are novels of pain to be told, but this

Is not one of them. I drive nails and screws,

Thousands. I dream of the bones of the wrist,

My wife. I dream of cowboy music.

The river of music that makes up a life.